


After

by Evillen, QDS



Category: Blitz
Genre: M/M, Slash, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-15
Updated: 2011-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:46:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evillen/pseuds/Evillen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/QDS/pseuds/QDS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>As always, I translate via Google Translator and other online means, and also from the help of Evillen.</p><p>If you do like this, leave your comments/kudos <b>at the original post rather than here so Evillen sees them. :)</b></p>
    </blockquote>





	After

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [After](https://archiveofourown.org/works/219507) by [Evillen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evillen/pseuds/Evillen). 



> As always, I translate via Google Translator and other online means, and also from the help of Evillen.
> 
> If you do like this, leave your comments/kudos **at the original post rather than here so Evillen sees them. :)**

*

With Brant, it's easy. Brant always laughs at him and lets out sarcastic, but not hurtful, comments. With him it's easy; even when they slowly and methodically plan to murder the Blitz, sitting on the couch in Nash's apartment, foreheads almost touching, leaning over the plan of the building. They're both cops – it's not too difficult to plan things so that their colleagues will never know who rid the world of this scum.

"Are you sure?" Brant asks, looking at him through his glass of Irish moonshine. The drink is stronger than weed, and without the after affects of a hangover. From where Brant got a whole bottle of this illegal stuff, Nash prefers not to know. "I can go alone."

"I'm sure." Nash answers with no hesitation. "First, our plan involves two participants, and second, I want to see the bastard die."

Porter doesn't say out loud "thirdly." _Thirdly, I am worried. Thirdly, I want to control the situation and know that you won't suffer. Thirdly, if Blitz kills you, I'm come home to an empty apartment and become a fucking alcoholic._

Nash takes a small sip of liquid, scalding his throat, and frowns. Brant snorts, takes the glass from him and fills it to the brim.

"Cheers to that." He pours the remains of the bottle into his glass, and Nash can't remember at all the last time they had so much to drink.

"Bottoms up." Brant clinks Nash's glass, and some liquor spills onto the upholstery of the couch. Nash shakes his head, and Brant, noticing this, laughs. "Heh, it's disinfectant!"

It's only the second time Nash has drunk to the bottom; he coughs and puts the empty glass on the table.

"You're an infection – you're trying to make me a drunkard," Porter complains hoarsely, ruffling his hair and pulling at his now bothersome tie.

"Yeah-yeah, I'm a bad influence on you." Brant's obviously amused by the situation. "Bad teaching and all that."

"I can teach you how to be bad, too," Nash says drunkenly.

"Well, like what? How _not_ to make my bed in the morning?" Brant builds thoughtful face. "Sorry, if that's the worst you can teach me, then I already know it."

"The worst?" echoes Porter, and then hugs Brant's neck and kisses his lips, trying to put all his skills into it. Brant doesn't resist at first, allowing Nash to slobber on him, and then easily pushes the inspector off.

"Yeah, Nash, I underestimated you." Brant looks like he hasn't decided which is better – to hit Porter or feel sorry for him. "You can teach me how to be bad. And now sleep it off. Tomorrow we will work some justice."

Nash collapses almost immediately, and curls up on the couch. Brant covers him with a blanket, picks up the empty glasses and goes to rinse them in the kitchen. He doesn't want to sleep at all, nor does he want to think about tomorrow either. He feels an unhealthy excitement, imagining how tomorrow they'll finally smash Blitz's skull. _I have to go to the loony bin._

He would have been safer if he went alone. Nash - a professional of his craft, a great guy, despite the fact that he's gay...but he is not a murderer. And tomorrow they can't let themselves hesitate.

Brant laughs, recalling the clumsy drunken kiss. _Were it someone else – he would slapped them with no hesitation. And not once._ But it was Nash. His lips were soft, but insistent, and his fingers were thin and strong. _You fuck_ \- Brant breaks off, finding that he has already washed the glasses, and now sits, smoking his third consecutive cigarette, thinking about Nash; _like a fucking woman or something._

He gets up, throws his cigarette into the sink and goes to the bedroom, lying on Nash's bed, as the host so graciously is napping on the couch. Before falling asleep, Brant has time to notice what an enormous bed Porter has, and what soft black sheets are on it.

***

When Nash wakes up, the apartment is filled with sunlight, his mouth is dry, and from the kitchen comes the smell of freshly brewed tea. Wait. Nash gets up from the couch, throwing off the blanket and when he appears in the kitchen, tries to convince himself that this is not a hallucination from the hangover: Brant sits sipping coffee and staring at the TV, and on the counter with a pressed napkin, he shows off a cup of green tea and a plate of toast.

"Good morning." Brant salutes him a cup. "Brewed you this vegetarian muck."

"Good." Nash leans against the doorjamb, and asked the first thing that comes to mind. "Why vegetarian?"

"Do I look like someone who understands this? Some sort of green grass instead of coffee in the morning – in any case it's a perversion. Although, that you drink it..."

Nash looks at him a few seconds, then laughs.

"Brant, you're a fossil. I'm in the shower."

"The tea will get cold," Brant notes with displeasure. "You don't appreciate my efforts! And by the way, I got up so early."

They both snort.

"Green tea is best served cold," is Porter's response, and is going to get out of the kitchen, but stops at the threshold. "Sorry about yesterday. I thought you were going to kill me."

"Oh go on, shower already, get yourself cleaned up!"

Nash stands under an icy shower trying to wash away the remnants of his hangover and the warm excitement at the bottom of his stomach. The memories of yesterday's kiss comes to him with shame. What an idiot, what _skill_ he showed! It's pure luck that Brant didn't kill him on the spot. Actually, why didn't he? Maybe he wasn't against it? Maybe if Nash was a little less drunk... _Oh no_ \- Nash resolutely stops himself from walking into his fantasies too far. To fantasize about your partner – not a good idea.

Porter steps out of the shower, towel-drying his wet hair. Brant's no longer in the apartment, but there is a note on the bed.

 _I've gone to prepare for the funeral. Didn't spy on you in the shower. Your fucking bed, I will now need to visit more often. Make something to eat for dinner, to celebrate.  
Ps. As you see, I actually know how to write _

Nash smiles and reads the note several times before convincing himself that the proposal about the bed holds no allusions. And then he goes to cook a steak and tries not to think about the upcoming case.

***

He hears Barry's steps behind him and it's difficult to force himself not to look back. He trusts Brant to join in the game on time. On the roof it's cold, Nash is approaching the edge, and he freezes when he hears Blitz's challenge.

Porter turns slowly, looking as confusion, anger, rage appears on Barry's face, and the gun moves a little higher, aiming for his head. Just at that moment, Brant strikes Barry in the head with the crowbar, stunning him. Nash is silent; though before he would have wanted to join Brant in this hellish moment, now it seems out of place. Nash doesn't feel sorry for the Blitz, and perhaps he would have killed bastard with his own hands, but to stand by and watch Brant beat him to death, Nash simply can't do that. He raises the gun that Barry dropped, checks for ammo, and goes to Brant. They look at each other, and the sergeant held out his hand. Nash hesitates a few seconds, and then gives him the gun. He doesn't turn away when Brant shoots.

He has long worked with the police, but still has trouble comprehending how quickly a person dies. To plan a murder, to prepare for it takes days, weeks, and possible even longer. But the moment of death – it's always a surprise, even if the person has been beaten up in the minutes before.

Nash is looking at the blood spreading across the roof, and thinks that they acted justly. His blood fills with belated adrenaline, his breathing quickens, and Nash looks at Brant.

"Fucking lucky he didn't shoot me in the hea--" Porter has no time to finish because Brant is pushing him to the wall and kissing him. This time the kiss goes totally different. Brutal, competitive. Nash pulls away Brant's jacket and shoves his hands under the sweater, trying to stroke as much skin as possible, chaotically sliding his hands over his back and stomach, his fingers catching the belt of his trousers, trying to deal with it. Brant quietly growls and pushes Nash's legs apart with his knee, nestling against his groin, unbuttons Porter's jeans, and with a sure hand covers his hard dick. From the influx of sensations Nash jerks his head, hitting it back against the wall.

"Don't smash your skull. It'll be insulting, after I saved you," Brant breathes, sliding his hand over Nash's cock.

Nash groans, and finally undoes the belt of the sergeant's trousers, running his thumb over the reddened head, hearing as Brant's breath quickens and the rhythm of his movements slip. That gets him even more, and Nash grabs Brant's shoulder with one hand, while the other clamps over his mouth to keep from screaming, and he comes in Brant's hand, who looks devilishly hot with his hand soiled with semen and his erect dick. Nash slips down the wall to his knees, and takes it into his mouth, slowly, at first, tonguing the protruding veins, outlining them, then he licks the salty head and wraps his lips around it, welcoming it in as Brant's entire body stiffens. Brant seizes Porter's hair, setting the pace. Nash doesn't object, allowing Brant to take the initiative into his own hands...literally. From the sharp, spasmodic movements, Brant is on the brink, and Nash slightly pauses to suspend his pleasure, and then presses his lips tighter. Brant squeezes out a moan - "fuck, Nash..." and watches as Porter licks his cum from his lips. It's the most erotic thing he's seen in his whole fucking life, and Brant looks away, helping Nash to rise from his knees.

"We need to leave, before surveillance have noticed Weiss gone." Nash tucks his shirt into his trousers, and it's only from his flushed cheeks and tousled hair that you could guess what he was doing a minute ago.

"Are you ready to eat?" Brant lights a cigarette and picks up the bag of evidence. He feels no embarrassment, just a strange lightness.

"You only have to eat..." The approach the lift, and Nash laughs softly.

"What do you snickering at?" Brant asked suspiciously.

"Admit it, when you wrote me that note about the bed, it had a dirty hint!"

"I'll give you a hint." Brant tried to sound threatening, and pulls Nash to him, planting a possessive kiss on his lips, tongue slipping into his mouth.

"Well, a small hint." Porter teases him, gently biting at his lower lip.

In Nash's apartment the steak, a bottle of whiskey and the bed with black sheets wait. And Porter's indignant grumbles: "Oh, how much blanket can you need! Do you want me to be here or suffocated or froze to death! No, Brant, you brute, don't you dare put the cigarette out on the table! Idiot!"

\--

End


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